


Gamkar shorts

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, College, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sickfic, moirallegance but every time they kiss it gets faster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27970895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A couple of detached Gamkar shorts.1) College-setting sickfic.2) Sappy drunk Karkat years after the game.3) Kitchen makeouts.
Relationships: Gamzee Makara & Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Ramen and Coffee

The timing could not be worse.

By now he's used to the bone-deep exhaustion of all nighters and cram sessions, or as used to them as a first-semester freshman can be. That was different in that it was fucking voluntary. But now it was well into winter, on a planet that had the nerve to be significantly more disease-riddled than the violently utilitarian Alternia, and Karkat was learning he'd spike a fever over so much as a case of the sniffles. And this was worse than that, some sort of opportunistic bug catching him between the poor eating habits and sleep deprivation, and it had him absolutely emptied of willpower and stamina.

And he had two papers due tomorrow.

"DO NOT," he texts, having to take his time with his stupid overheating brain and thick fingers, "UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES COME OVER. YOU'LL CATCH IT."

That's the real reason. It's also half because he knows he'll cave to their pampering if they get too close. By now Gamzee half-lives in his place and Roxy's, having given up their old apartment ages ago. He misses the old place they'd used to share, the one he'd had before he needed to move closer to campus. He misses waking up next to them every day instead of just most days. Mostly he misses being able to breathe through his nose.

"doesn't matter if I catch it, karkat." It's true they don't work regular hours, it's true their health is usually pretty robust outside of the chronic pain and fatigue... "you eating? at least let me pick you up some food."

"NO. ARE YOU HEARING ME? NO. WHY THE FUCK ARE WE EVEN BOTHERING WITH WORDS ANYMORE IF I CAN'T CONVEY THIS SIMPLE OF A CONCEPT TO YOU IN PLAIN LANGUAGE. DON'T. COME. OVER."

"what'd you get at that ramen place we were at last time? the one you liked."

He can feel his conviction waning. God damn it. It's that or the inevitable shuffle over to the kitchen to weakly pop some frozen crap into the microwave, and he was getting low on groceries as it was.

"YUZU. WITH EXTRA PORK BELLY."

"that's my guy :o) "

His stomach twists in guilt and shame, but hey, maybe they'll just drop it off and leave him to it.

"i'm gettin you extra greens though."   
"YOU'RE A FUCKING MENACE."   
"and you're eating them, motherfucker"   
"WE'LL SEE."

Knowing they'll wake him up at their arrival gives him an excuse to abandon the absolute nonsense that is developing in the first paper and let his too hot, too big, too tired body lay down on his too-small bed. The half hour seems to fucking vanish, slip through one of the holes the sick has managed to put in his brain. There's knocking at the door and missed texts on his phone, and he deliriously pulls a blanket over his shoulders and trods to the front of the small apartment, opening the door without argument.

Gamzee has the takeout in one hand and grocery bags looped onto the opposite arm. They swoop in and peck him on the temple, once, twice. "Hey brother."

"Hey," he mumbles, like confessing to his own cooperation in this. He sits down at the little table while they unpack everything. Through the kitchen window he realizes there are tiny snowflakes flurrying around outside; some are trapped in his moirail's hair, and something about that makes him want to cry.

They come up to place a (blissfully) cool palm on his forehead. "You taken any nsaids yet?"

He furrows his brow. "No."

"Dummy," they scold gently. And give another inadvisable kiss down near his hairline, inadvisable both due to the sickness and his current ability to remain hygienic between school, illness and... everything. Another group of seconds seem to vanish and he's handed a little cup of what's probably liquid Motrin (Gamzee doesn't like pills, they recall) and downs it. He's then herded towards the bathroom for a cool (not cold, he's advised) shower, and by the time he emerges the takeout is hot and ready.

"You didn't have to do all this," he musters, pretending like standing up is very easy right now, actually.

"Don't do it cause I have to," they answer. In his current state, that shuts him up.

While they eat, Gamzee explains the pot boiling on the stove is soup they're going to freeze into portions for him. They point out the fresh spinach he can dump into it when it's reheated, because he needs the iron. When he's done and on the couch, explaining how he very much needs to get back to work, actually, they're pilfering his phone and asking for the number of his instructors.

"I'm telling you, you can't show them weakness. These people are conniving, Gamzee. They're waiting to fucking strike."

"Yeah yeah," they answer, as the phone rings. He's already half out-of-it when he overhears bits of the voicemail they leave; "Hi, uh, this is Karkat's girlfriend. He's too sick to come to the phone. Wanted me to say he's almost done with that paper, just needs a one day extension..."

They seem to use a new word for what this is with each stranger, but Karkat doesn't mind. It's like getting little pieces to put together. Girlfriend is new. His feverish pan chews on it delicately.

By the time he's falling asleep with his head in their lap, the wetness from his damp hair will probably obscure any teardrops. It's either the medication or his imagination, but the stroke of their knuckles down his shoulder and arm seem to pull some heat from his skin. He can't stay awake much longer.

"Good big man," they mutter, in a phrase that should be goofy for being so monosyllabic but puts a thrum through him that only increases as they scratch down into his hair. The sigh out of him rattles, and that's it. He's done.

He wakes up feeling half cured, treated to fresh coffee, and he writes both papers with them playing Animal Crossing on the bed in his tiny room. They email his instructors for the homework; he does that too, with time enough left in his sick day to watch some shitty anime with them on the bed before they pack up to go for the night.

He stops them at the door, seizes them in a hug. Takes one last deep breath of them before he lets them go.

"Eat your greens," they chide, giving him a final pat on the cheek. He retaliates with a kiss that's probably a little too deep, and breaks it as suddenly to pretend he hadn't. It really doesn't seem to matter that he can't meet their eyes as they go; they both know he'll do as he's told.


	2. I've been trying to lay my head down

He knows his limit, but every time he's sure the last inch he's put on will make the difference. He's proven wrong again; the bar is darker than before, dimmer and further away. Even now he can still measure the size of himself against the other people, objects in the room. Feeling awkward and precarious-- moreso while drunk.

He can't mediate himself like this. That's the point, maybe, but for him it never seems to work in his favor. Just makes him feel too big, too lonely. Acutely aware of everything he normally spends all his mental faculties repressing.

He rises from the barstool and after a bit of awkward wandering, finds June and the others. His condition is probably obvious, but for a blissful moment, he doesn't really give a shit. "Hey. Where's Gamzee."

Jane laughs. "They're right next to you, bud!"

Oh. He has to look in two directions before he finds them. They're smiling. They are  _unfairly_ beautiful. He feels like it's the first time seeing them in years, like everything now is turned up too much to deal with.

When they lift their arm he moves under it, snakes an arm around their middle and leans his head into their collar with a soft hum. Dave laughs awkwardly. He profoundly does  _not_ give a shit, not with their claws in his hair.

"You done, honey?"

He's whatever the fuck they want him to be, right now, which he thinks he half-mumbles down into their skin. The yearning comes in sharp waves, and he holds them tighter.

He clings even closer in the back of the uber, if possible. There's a bit of humor in a guy this big clutching on to somebody like that, he's distantly aware. Emphasis distantly, with Gamzee still stroking his hair.

"Sometimes I think you're doing this on purpose, Karkat."

"So what if I am," he grumbles back. Having passed the peak of inebriation a moment ago, but cherishing the moments before his self-awareness comes back in and ruins this. Ruins how easy it is to lean on them, put his hand on their thigh, rub his face down against the softness of their chest with no care at all for the driver in the front seat. He'll be embarrassed later.

Later ends up being the last couple blocks of the drive, and by the time he's through their front door he's mostly put himself back together. Mostly. They'd gave a little sigh earlier he can't get out of his head, so he goes back once their shoes are off.

"Glass of water first," Gamzee coaches between kisses. "Or you'll get yourself a headache."

It's the exact kind of instruction he can be petulant about but ultimately fold to. The water clears his head further, and he has to make choices again. Has to balk there momentarily at the idea of being responsible for touching them. For wanting them. It feels like suppressing an eruption, trying to get that wanting back down under the mantle.

A little idea makes its suggestion:  _you could just.... not._

He takes a moment. Maybe a few. Not deliberation so much as the pointed absence of it. Normally he feels better when he's sobered up, less desperate, less hungry. Tonight it's worse, like in the clarity he's realizing this could be some sort of bad habit. Like he's tired of himself. Like maybe he could turn all that self-discipline on its head, someday. Use it for something better.

He finishes the water, and follows his moirail to the bedroom.


	3. bigger on the inside

He's warm. Like more than the light of the sun or a fire; it's a body-heat, substantial and close and palpable. Warmer behind his ears and jaw, under his clothes, when his mouth finally opens on their neck.

They blink and make as quiet a sound they can manage. Have to, with Dave on the other side of the kitchen wall. Would be lying to say there wasn't part of a thrill in that, but mostly they don't care about anything but how he's pressing in and daring his palms along their side and thigh. The rolling purr out of their thorax takes less muffling, because they know he can feel it up against his chest as well as he can hear it.

"Mn," he says. It's a short little noise that betrays the gears in his head are turning again, maybe thinking this isn't something he should _do_ , and they can't have that. They get his jaw in a palm and guide him back up till their lips meet, and that's when it's the warmest places of them together. Soothing as hot tea or a cooked meal.

They wonder if it's the same gears he's got turning in there; that this feels a little extra-conciliatory, always had. But he's consoled alright, and stays there tucked in this tight little space in the kitchen. The cold keeps them indoors and the apartment seems almost designed to prevent any kind of comfortable physical closeness outside of the bedroom. But they manage. They think maybe one day, when Dave's not home, they could maybe convince him in there to sit on the mattress. But for now this is really the best option, the corner next to the window where the chill of winter can be felt.

Karkat makes excuses for the space sometimes. Saying he's too big to be comfortable anywhere, but he fits in their arms just fine they think. They break the kiss before he does, but leave their claws playing in his hair.

"We gotta get you a couch."

It takes him a second to realize he's being spoken to, pale-dumb and fuzzy. That little furrow in his brow is worth the world to them. "...Why?"

"Why do you think?" They tease. He was already flushed, but the expression (like he's being caught in something) he takes on seems to emphasize it. He's thinking again. They almost interrupt with another kiss before he surprises them;

"...We could go to your place."

It's a 20 minute bus ride in winter, longer if they walk. But the look on his face says it'd be worth it to him. Like he needs this today, quadrants and public transit and January be damned. Worth it just to share the ratty bed in their cramped studio and wander palms uselessly across each other for a couple hours. It's the first time in their recollection that he's  _ asked,  _ and in a moment they gotta keep their silence from resembling refusal instead of the awe it is truly.

"I'll get my coat," they answer. One kiss for the road, one in their shared bus seat, one in the hallway by the door. In every precious, small space they get to have together.

**Author's Note:**

> hehe the end :)


End file.
